


Five More Minutes, Please?

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Challenge Response, F/M, Psychic Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Now you are, essentially, urgent care for trauma patient James Buchanan Barnes, former evil assassin, total lack of psychiatric qualifications notwithstanding.





	Five More Minutes, Please?

**Author's Note:**

> I signed up for @noshitstark's writing challenge over on Tumblr and I churned this out in record time! The prompt was "Five more minutes, please?" and I'm so glad I found a way to get this idea out of me in such a fun way :3 Hope you enjoy!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155765884@N08/30021748417/in/dateposted-public/)

 

“Dammit, Steve, _now?_ Really?”

“He’s really not doing well… I’m so sorry.”

“Ugh, you better be. If I’m late for class again—”

“I’m sure you won’t be,” Steve assures you, but you scoff.

“Last time you said it’d be quick, and I was there for almost three hours!” You stuff the rest of your pens into your backpack. “I missed a quiz. A quiz, Steve!”

“He’s getting better,” Steve says. He sighs. “I really am sorry, but… I can’t do any less for Buck.”

You heft your backpack over your shoulder and roll your eyes. “He’s your best friend. I can’t really blame you. Even if it’s a major inconvenience.”

“He is getting better,” Steve repeats, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself now more than you. “The day will come you won’t ever need to come bail us out again. I promise.”

“I sure hope so.”

 

* * *

 

You’ve known Steve Rogers and his friend Bucky Barnes for almost two years now. It started innocently enough—Tony Stark had taken you on as an assistant in your gap year between college and grad school, and you’d served coffee at a meeting with the three of them. Bucky had taken offense to your recording their orders until you’d explained, with much internal eye-rolling, that you were psychic and no, you couldn’t tell what they were thinking, and yes, Tony Stark _did_ think louder than screaming toddlers.

Tony had been mock-offended, but you’d had this conversation so many times with him present that you knew his horror was for show. Steve had raised his eyebrows. Bucky had straight-up frowned.

“It’s like… radio stations,” you’d explained. “You’re all on different frequencies, and for some people the volume is up louder than others. But unless I focus, I’m not tuned in. So it’s just static. And that’s distracting.”

“The recording is for accuracy,” Bucky had stated, and you’d nodded, relieved.

“And I do delete them right away,” you added.

That had seemed to be the end of it. You got them their coffees, you stepped out, you deleted the recordings, job done.

Then, a month later, Captain America called your cell phone.

To _beg_.

Now you are, essentially, urgent care for trauma patient James Buchanan Barnes, former evil assassin, total lack of psychiatric qualifications notwithstanding. This was the eighth time you’d gotten the summons to help the Avengers deal with their most troubled member. The frequency of the incidents had lessened—it had been almost five months since Steve’s last call—and you’d hoped you wouldn’t need to go back.

Well.

That wasn’t quite true.

What you really hoped for—what you still hope for now—is that one day you’ll get a call that isn’t just a desperate plea for help.

Bonus points if that phone call is from Bucky Barnes _not_ in the middle of a panic attack.

 

* * *

 

 Today, though, Bucky’s not making any calls. When you get to the right floor in the tower, you dump your bag by the elevator and follow Steve to Bucky’s room. You have to skip every few steps to keep up. The hum of Steve’s mind is focused, louder than usual. He’s worried, anxious—you can’t quite make out any thoughts, and you don’t try, but you can sense their general direction.

Poor guy.

“Buck’s been sedated,” Steve explains. You raise your eyebrows.

“Was he being violent?”

“Not exactly.” Steve scrubs a hand along his jaw and looks sideways at you. “But he expressed a preference for it. After, uh, last time.”

“Oh.”

Last time. Right.

Last time, Bucky had been fully conscious when you’d gone to try and calm him down. You’d gone in, tried to soothe him with words before adjusting your mental frequency to meet his—but you hadn’t done a good enough job, because the next thing you knew Bucky had you pinned to his bed with a heavy arm pressed into your throat.

The memory brings a flush to your cheeks. You’d never been pinned down like _that_ before, and it had been… enlightening. By now, you’d nearly forgotten about it, but apparently Bucky and Steve hadn’t. Oh well. Hopefully they hadn’t picked up on the second reason behind your discomfort.

You reach Bucky’s rooms and pause outside with Steve. “I really appreciate you doing this,” Steve says. He squeezes your shoulder. “Watching him when he’s like this—”

“I know, I know, it sucks and I’m amazing and wonderful.” You open Bucky’s door and head inside. His little studio apartment is neat, though there’s a mug lying on its side on the rug by the couch. Hm. “Well, see you later.”

“Wait,” Steve protests, but you’ve already locked the door in his face.

“When you guys can handle it on your own, I’ll happily cede the room to you,” you call cheerfully. “Now go away, your stress is stressing me out.”

You can hear Steve huff, but the tenor of his thoughts lifts as he heads off.

Once you can’t sense Steve anymore, you turn back with your hands on your hips to look around. Aside from the toppled mug and the damp coffee stain on the floor, Bucky’s place looks fine. You bring the mug to the sink and splash some water on the rug. Hopefully it’ll help.

The bed is behind a partition screen. You take a deep breath and poke your head around. Bucky is lying prone on the queen bed, his eyes squeezed shut and his breathing shallow. His dark hair fans around his head on the pillow. Steve must have arranged him—Bucky never uses a pillow. They’re too soft.

Most people you could sense from a healthy distance. You’re just six feet from Bucky, though, and his thoughts are silent. He’s always been a tough one to read. The only person who really rivals his mental quietude is Natasha, but that’s not surprising considering their shared histories.

Shared trauma?

You sigh and make your way to Bucky’s bedside. His hands are flat and open at his sides, though a muscle is twitching in the skin-and-bones hand by you. You reach out, holding your breath, and slide your hand into his.

Nothing.

You curl your fingers around his palm, focusing. His fingers are still, but worse than that is the deathly silence in his mind.

“Bucky, where you at?” you murmur.

You’d never done this while Bucky was unconscious. In the past, you’d found a way to touch him—the best way to get a read on someone even after years spent trying to hone your skills—and then pull him back from whatever bad memory he’d gotten lost in. But there was no memory you could sense.

If brains were radios, most people were at odd frequencies. They emitted static, or maybe a hint of sense here or there. This wasn’t that.

Bucky’s brain was _off_.

You groan. You really should’ve paid more attention in psych class, but you’d never thought you’d need any of it! If a psychic needed to pay attention to how brains worked, were they _really_ psychic?

“Id, superego—no, that’s not it,” you mumble. You shift over to sit cross-legged next to Bucky, still holding his hand. “Subconscious!”

Subconscious.

_Oh, shit._

Bucky might have requested sedation, but now he's caught in a dream.

“Dammit, Bucky!”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Bucky doesn’t move. He just lies there, still apart from the tiny twitch in the pad of his hand. On closer inspection, you can see some slight movement of his eyes beneath those thin eyelids. Then you realize you’re inches from his face and bolt upright, cheeks warm again.

How were you supposed to reach Bucky when he was buried in a dream? You’d never gotten a hold of someone when they were unconscious—it felt wrong, invasive. Helping Bucky had always involved him saying, whether with words or just those expressive blue eyes, that he was accepting your help. Right now, though… he couldn’t consent to a damn thing.

And your normal grab-the-hand method wasn’t cutting it.

You draw your gaze from your clasped hands to Bucky’s face. Would he mind if you touched his face? Steve was out of your range, and after sending him off in improved spirits, you didn’t want to worry him over nothing. Besides, Bucky had literally pinned you to his bed. If he fussed over you putting a hand on his cheek, that would be all sorts of unjust.

So you lean over and put your free hand on Bucky’s cheek.

It’s a good cheek—a little scruffy, perhaps, but you can bear it. You run your thumb along his cheekbone lightly, then with more pressure. Where _is_ he?

At this point, you’re desperate.

You cup Bucky’s face in both hands and lean over to stare at him from inches away. Your face is so screwed up you can just hear your mom telling you your face will stick that way.

“Come on, Buck,” you say through clenched teeth. “Whatever hole you’re hiding in isn’t half as fun as waking up.”

You press your fingers into his face so hard you wonder if you’re leaving indents. You put your forehead to his, eyes squeezed shut. Your nose brushes his, and for the first time he huffs and shifts. His breath brushes your lips, and then you sense him.

Without warning, you tumble headfirst into Bucky’s mind.

Delving into someone’s mind has never been pleasant, but this is a whole other brand of terrifying. You’ve been in Bucky’s mind before, but only to the surface. You fall right past the recognizable astral landscapes of New York and the tower and Steve Rogers Original Art™, slipping between shades of black and white and _snow cold ice stillness_.

You land heavily in a static wasteland of bleak, short ruins stretching beyond the curve of the horizon. Touching Bucky is your one tether back to reality; even in your astral projection, you can feel his face under your hands back in his bedroom. Bucky’s blank mind reminds you of brutalism and harsh lines and, for whatever reason, Stalin. There’s nothing to see but ugly tan concrete, and almost as little to hear. Just distant whispers, too vague to make out. You can’t even pinpoint their direction of origin.

“Bucky?” you call.

The concrete begins to melt. Sounds come quick and fast, building in volume until you have to cover your ears. From the sopping ground burst bloody trees and dead bodies, toppling buildings and clashing armies that collapse in on themselves even as they grow. The images shift with such speed that you have to close your eyes against the visual barrage. There’s a whirlwind around you, and it’s all you can do to avoid ducking away from imaginary leaves in your face.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “calm your tits.”

Something bumps against your foot; you crack open an eye and there’s your own head staring up at you. Severed.

“Shit!”

You careen backwards, bile rising in your throat. Something catches you under the arms and you flail until you recognize the cold bite of Bucky’s metal hand on your arm. You shut your eyes again and lean into him. As you catch your breath, you marvel for a moment at the simultaneous feel of the real Bucky’s face on your hands and the support of him at your back here in his dream.

In his _dream?_

“Damn it!”

“What’s going on?” Bucky says in your ear.

“Wake up,” you snap, and elbow him hard in the ribs.

The stretch back into your own body is more painful than usual. Your mind finds new and exciting ways to hurt as it slithers and squeezes back along the brainwaves through your fingers back home. You lurch away from Bucky with a groan.

Bucky wakes, gasping. He jolts upright and whips his head around until he’s staring straight at you. His eyes are wide and frightened; terror radiates off him in broiling waves. You panic.

“I’m so sorry!” you blurt. “Steve called and when I got here you were already unconscious and I didn’t know what to do and then I got dragged into your dream and—”

“Woah,” Bucky says. He holds up a hand, stopping you mid-sentence. His voice is gravely. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. You crouch at the edge of the bed and stare at him. Bucky shudders as he exhales. He heaves one more shaky breath and cracks open an eye. “You can go on.”

“Oh!” You suck in a quick breath. Somehow, Bucky’s gotten control of himself, and he’s back to radio silence. “Are you okay? Are you with me?”

Bucky shakes his hair back, face unreadable. “I’m with you,” he says.

“Oh. Good. Great!” You stand up. “I’ll get Steve.”

He grabs your hand. “Wait.” He blinks up at you, blue eyes wide and utterly open. “Five more minutes, please?”

You glance at the clock by Bucky’s bedside. Five minutes you can do. “Sure, Bucky.” You sit on the edge of the bed, not bothering to pull your hand away. A tether back to the real world is nice. You’re still shaken by the whites of your own dead eyes at your feet.

He’s quiet for a minute, staring off into space. Intermittent shudders still reverberate down his arm; a crease has formed between his eyebrows. You would smooth it away, if you could, but for all you’d had your hands on his face for who knew how long he’d still never really said you _could_.

“What did you see in there?” he asks at last.

“Oh, uh, nothing very concrete.” You bite your lip; how could you avoid the worst of it? “Buildings. Trees. Bodies. It passed in a blur.”

“I’m sorry you had to see any of it,” Bucky mutters.

“What? No, _I’m_ sorry,” you blurt. “You never said I could do that! I know I have zero expertise here, but I know that’s a big no-no.”

“I trust you,” he says. He squeezes your hand and tugs you closer. “Your head’s still attached, right?” He reaches out with his metal hand and presses the cool fingers into the juncture of your neck.

You suck in a breath, eyes wide. If he’d seen the head rolling at your feet… He’d been dreaming of you? Dreaming of you _decapitated?_

“Bucky,” you whisper, “I’m fine. I’m right here. I’m fine.” You press your free hand over his. “It’s okay. None of that was real.”

His lips part. “You saw?”

“Not on purpose,” you say quickly, but his face falls all the same. He hangs his head, shoulders tense. He pulls his hands away from you and twists them together between his crossed legs.

“You know what I hate?” he says abruptly.

You blink. “Do tell…?”

“I hate that we keep meeting like this.” He lifts his head. There’s some hair in front of his eyes; he tucks it behind his ear impatiently.

“But you’re okay now.” You reach out and tap his knee. “You’re here, you’re fine.”

“I mean—” He snorts. “I’m not _fine_. Yeah, I’m not a mess _at the moment_ , but—”

“It’s okay, Bucky,” you interrupt. “I’m no therapist, but I’m glad I can help.”

“You shouldn’t have to help,” he mutters. He reaches out; you put your hand in his. “I wish you could just… be here. Without having to help.” Bucky tangles his fingers through yours and gazes down at your interlocked hands. “I wish I could give you something other than nightmares and threats and panic attacks.”

By the time he meets your eyes again, you’re grinning.

“You know,” you tell him, “you could have just called.”

His blue eyes brighten. “Yeah? How?”

“Did Steve never give you my number?” You gasp in mock horror. “Terrible!”

“He’s a punk,” Bucky says. The crease between his eyebrows has faded; instead he’s smiling, his blue eyes crinkling with delight.

“I’ll have to tell him off,” you say. You scoot over to stand up, but Bucky just laughs and tugs you until you’re sprawled in his lap, your faces inches apart. You swallow; heat pools in your belly as his blue eyes fix on yours. “Or maybe I’ll have to tell _you_ off,” you murmur.

“You can try,” Bucky murmurs back. His lips brush yours with each word. “First…”

He brushes his lips against yours, so tentative you almost want to cry. You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug him in closer, pulling your head up to kiss him as fierce as you can. He groans and grip your sides. His mouth is soft and sweet and so intoxicating that you can’t even think. With your hands on each other and your eyes closed, you can’t tell if the excitement building in you is all your own. Right now, Bucky’s broadcasting loud and clear.

When you finally break apart, you’re gasping. You don’t let go of his hair. Somehow, you managed to straddle him without even realizing, but neither of you makes any effort to move. You just smile at each other as you catch your breath. His hands glide down your sides to squeeze your thighs; the feeling sends a fresh rush of want through you. You kiss him all on your own, and he laughs on your lips and leans back until you’re lying on top of him.

“Well,” you say eventually, propping yourself up against his chest, “I think the five minutes is up.”

Bucky lips his swollen lips. “I haven’t been keeping track.”

“I do have class tonight,” you tell him.

“How soon?”

“At six…”

“It’s only four,” he says. He reaches up and cradles your face, brushing his thumbs along your cheeks. “I’ll take you myself if that helps.”

“Hmm, it might,” you tease. You sit up, still straddling his hips, and tap your chin in mock concentration. “Let me think…”

“You little minx,” Bucky mutters. He grabs your hips and flips you over, rolling on top of you in one swift movement. His hair hangs around your face, but you’re frozen, staring up at him with no mind left at all. Your hands are caught; you’re powerless to stop him from pressing kisses down your neck.

As if you would.

His metal hand slides up; when his thumb brushes your breast, you’re lost. You arch into him with a moan, clutching at whatever part of his shirt you can reach.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin.

You’re too overwhelmed to answer in words, but you tug his shirt upwards as much as you can until he gets the message. He catches your lips again, this time with all the intensity you could have hoped for.

Then someone knocks on the door, and you both freeze. Bucky lifts his head, his hand covering your mouth.

“Everything okay? Is Buck up yet?” Steve calls.

“Five more minutes,” Bucky answers, eyes on you and sparkling like the stars.

You laugh and tug him back down for more.

Steve can wait.


End file.
